


No One's Name (But Ours)

by compo67



Series: The Chicago Verse [144]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Banter, Chicago (City), Chicago Blackhawks, Dialogue-Only, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Growing Old Together, Grumpy Old Men, Hockey, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slice of Life, Supportive Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 23:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30012324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: First, Sam throws out Dean's salami.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: The Chicago Verse [144]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/46578
Comments: 16
Kudos: 69





	No One's Name (But Ours)

***

"Sam?" 

"If this is about the salami, I'm leaving."

"Good, then I’d get the entire couch to myself."

 _"What?_ No! Look. You’re going through the stages of grief. But it was _gray._ ”

“‘Stages of grief’ my twelve inch dick. Scoot the hell over. I’m sick of your Sasquatch ass hogging the entire couch _and_ the remote.” 

“Wait. Are you wearing a Blackhawks jersey?" 

"... …. … no. Nope. Definitely not."

"And then he crosses his arms over his chest as if I can't still see the jersey _or_ him."

"Why do you talk like that? Who are you—the narrator?" 

“ _Someone_ has to be.”

“Point.”

“As the President of the Living with Dean Winchester club, I have to say things out loud like that to process it. And I know, for a _fact_ , that those jerseys are two hundred bucks—minimum. You hate shelling out money for _underwear_.”

“I only hate it because I refuse to pay thirty bucks for something to cover my ass. Lay off. Besides, I know a guy.”

“Ah, so you’re back to your wheelings and dealings.”

“Sam—don’t say shit when you want one of your own.”

“Like hell I do. I’m in no rush to support a team with an incredibly problematic name and logo, but I think you’re well aware of that fact.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well aware. Some shit is beyond my control, Professor.”

“Did you get a player jersey? Or did you get it personalized? And why do I find the latter so confoundingly precious?"

"Sam! Quit… invading my personal space. A man has a right to exist freely within the confines of his own home."

"Hello, have you _met_ us? What's personal space? Also, I know you're mad I put my foot down about going out today, but it's not gonna kill you to stay in, so stop trying to change my mind."

"It snows two inches and you board up the house so you can hole yourself up in your office like a regular Emily Dickinson. _I_ don't live that way, thank you very much."

"It's not two inches, Dean. It's two _feet_. The last thing I need is you having a heart attack from trying to shovel, _or,_ you slipping on ice. Watch the game on TV like a normal person."

"Why exactly do I have to listen to you? I’m the older, taller, _and_ cooler brother.”

“You _wish_ you were taller. And ‘cool’ is subjective, so I couldn’t care less.”

“I ain't no normie, Sammy. Snow don’t scare me. Baby and I can get through any weather any time.” 

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you _should_. Why do I always have to be the heavy? I’m not a wet blanket—don’t you _dare_ say it.”

“What if I told you I have a ride to the game?" 

"No, Dean.”

“What if the Zamboni driver picks me up?”

“Nope.”

“What if Toews rolls up to our front door driving a snowplow and offers to be my personal chauffeur to and from the game?”

“N-O-.”

“What if I hire Balto and take a dog sled to the United Center? We’d be on the sidewalks the entire time.”

“If that were to happen, Dean, I'd tell you that if you ever want to share a bed with me again, you'll sit down on the couch and not make me worry about your well-being."

“I call blackmail.”

“Nope.”

“Blackmail!”

“Blue balls.”

“Oh, great! Just _great_. Freaking _lawyers."_

“Freaking _mechanics_. Let me see the jersey.”

“ _No_. You don’t even wanna watch the game with me.”

“Can you just imagine if we had kids? Just for one small moment—imagine it. Because this is what it would be like.”

“The kids would be on _my_ side and you’d still be a wet blanket.”

“Dean!”

“Sam! You can’t stay cooped up in the house for the rest of forever! Even when I wanna do something together you figure out a way to go be by yourself. It’s fucking annoying and I’m over it.” 

“...I didn’t say no to watching the game with you.”

“That’s right, instead of saying a clear-cut ‘no, thanks,’ you went on and on about how you’d rather do something else.”

“I just said that if you’re gonna yell at the TV the entire time, I’d prefer to spend my afternoon _not_ doing that.”

“See? You can’t just reply, you have to reply with a fucking footnote.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? I’m not doing anything.”

“The eyes.”

“I’m not giving you ‘eyes.’”

“You’re giving me the ‘Dean hit a nerve and now I need to analyze it to death’ eyes.”

“I guess. I just feel like, I should give you explanations as to why I say no or would prefer not to do something.”

“Sam—you don’t owe me or anyone else in the entire universe any explanations.”

“That’s not quite accurate. How will you know the reason behind my response?”

“I’ll either figure it out on my own or straight up ask you and _then_ you can tag on your footnotes.”

“So this is… weird.”

“Don’t I fuckin’ know it, Sammy. Look at me, talking about emotions and communication shit.”

“Yeah. It’s—actually? A huge relief.”

“You can thank therapy twice a week for that.”

“I used to think I could be your therapist.”

“I mean, we can definitely role play that next time you’re feeling frisky.”

“Did he just make a C-minus grab for sex just now? To _me?_ Me, _Sam Winchester?”_

“Whatta jerk. I can pencil you in between the first and second period of tonight's game.”

“So I get a fifteen-minute timeslot of your dick? Gee, thanks.”

“I can do a _lot_ in fifteen minutes.”

“It’d be fifteen minutes of you lying there while I do all the work.”

“Hey. If you’re gonna complain about the way I fuck, I’ll take my dick elsewhere.”

“I’m just saying that you’ve got a pretty sweet deal whenever we…”

“Hide the hotdog!”

“No, no, no—don’t start that shit. Rewind. Back to therapy.”

“Ugh, fine. No, you can’t be my therapist, Sam. It just doesn’t work that way.”

“I know. I see that now. I think.” 

“Sam.”

“Dean.”

“Please, _please_ rethink the whole going to therapy thing. I know a while back you said no, and I left it there. Cool. Totally fine. You had stuff to work through on your own and I can respect that. But I think… I think you’d get a lot from it.”

“Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, I will revisit and recollect my thoughts.”

“Always the lawyer.”

“Don’t mess up my hair.”

“You went so short this time around in Jenny’s chair.”

“She added layers though.”

“It looks good.”

“I like your hair, too. Not sure if I’m a fan of the beard, though.”

“If I go bald, I wanna make sure I can make my own toupee.”

“What.”

“Yep, just trim some from the bottom and plaster it on top.”

“No.”

“Pretty clever, huh?”

“I’m not… nope, not gonna take that bait. Can I confess something about hockey to you?”

“You’re sleeping with Gritty, aren’t you? I fucking knew it. All that orange hair in bed.”

“Uh, no. It’s way worse than that.”

“You’ve been moonlighting as a Zamboni driver? How many times can I say ‘Zamboni’ until you murder me with one?”

“I’m _not_ Ryan Reynolds in red spandex.”

“Well goddamn, when were you gonna tell me?”

“I’d think of some other poetic irony.”

“Sam. Watch the game with me. I’ll make nachos.” 

“Okay. But here's my confession: I don’t like the Hawks.”

“Me neither.”

 _“What?!_ So what was all _this?”_

“First of all, there's a method to my madness.”

“Do you even know what you’re referencing?”

“Hamlet, _duh_. Keep up, Sammy, keep up. Look. You root for the home team. It’s just what you do in this town. Even if you hate them, even if they _suck_. You wear the jersey, you go to the games, you talk about it over nachos, and you accept the fact that they might be idiots. But they’re _your_ idiots. Warts and all.”

“Uh… we’re still talking about hockey, right?”

“Try, Sam. Try just going with the flow.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying. Guess we’ve never lived anywhere long enough to have a home team anyway.”

“Nope. I’ll make you a deal. I promise not to yell… too much. And you try to just enjoy the Blues getting their sorry asses kicked into oblivion.”

“I suppose.”

"Good enough. Also, I got this personalized. I don’t wear anyone’s name but ours."

"Okay, that’s surprisingly deep. But I also need at least ten pictures of you in this jersey. For science."

"Oh-ho, so this boils your potato, huh? You know—I got seats close enough to the ice to see everything, but far away enough so the blood and ice don't land on you."

"What a gentleman."

"But for real. Does the jersey look stupid?" 

"It does not, in any way, look stupid or any variation of stupid, as you presently wear it."

"Thanks, Professor."

“So. Uh. Maybe we can catch the next home game. If it’s not snowing.”

“Hell yes! And monster truck season should be starting up soon.”

“I did _not_ agree to monster truck season!”

“What if I sit like this?”

“No, Dean.”

“What if I sing to you?”

“No, Dean.”

“What if I lift the jersey up?”

“You wh—no!”

“What if I told you there’s a matching jersey specially fitted for Professors in your office?”

“So we can both root for a team we don’t like?”

“Exactly.”

“Does this make us true Chicagoans now?”

“We’re one step closer, Sammy.”

**Author's Note:**

> hello, my dears. i managed to wrestle with this idea in my head for a few hours last week in times of respite. it helps a lot to stay connected to these two knuckleheads. we are still in hospice and likely to be for the next two weeks. these past three months have been almost surreal. thank you all for the kindness and support. take care of yourselves, y'all. tell your people you love 'em.


End file.
